


Inner Sanctum

by Winterstar



Category: White Collar
Genre: Gen, triggers for self harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-29
Updated: 2011-08-29
Packaged: 2018-03-31 09:19:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3972547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winterstar/pseuds/Winterstar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is an answer to the prompt on lj-white collar hurt comfort:</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

PART ONE

Peter stands, his hands on hips, starting at the wall. The wall speaks to him, in ugly low tones. It tells him a story he doesn’t want to hear. It is bleak and cold and steals his breath as he realizes how fragile every mind is, how even the strongest amongst us break. He reaches his hand to the wall, but pulls back and does not touch it. It whispers to him as if it is a ghost – the blood smeared there, staining the wall.

How did this happen? How could he let it happen?

Something deep inside of him chides his arrogance. Sometimes it isn’t about his control; there are many things he cannot control. But this, Peter thinks, he should have been able to influence. He considers Hughes and his part in what happened. Had he been duped? Had he been willing to allow something like this to happen? Did he know the extent of what Neal would go through?

Did Neal think he was alone?

Peter closes his eyes with a hand over them. He drops his hand then and looks up to the ceiling of the cell. He feels the strength in his shoulders, in his stance shatter. He cannot hold it together anymore. There isn’t much left of his resolve to keep himself in one piece. He gave what he had to Neal, he hopes Neal knows.

He takes one last look at the blood stain on the wall and then surveys the small cell Neal had been held in for the better part of three weeks. Three weeks. Peter shakes his head, how long had he thought Neal cut and run? How many more times was he going to be proven wrong in that regard?

Three weeks in cell with bare white walls. The ceiling is high in the cell and one would think it would be a blessing, but it wasn’t for Neal. As far up as it was made it impossible to try and climb out of the cell through the ventilation shaft. Long fluorescent bulbs flicker above him. He glances at the small bench which was designated the bed. It is barely wide enough for a grown man to lie on his back. There is a toilet and sink in the opposite corner. There is no door, no bars, no window.

The cell is a box with no openings.

They literally imprisoned Neal in a room with no way out. There was a small slot near the floor to pass food into the cell. No human contact, no way out. Peter closes his eyes again and tries not to think of the video feed he witnessed.

After three weeks without hope, Neal sat in the corner and slammed his head against the wall. Again and again, until he drew blood. He didn’t stop then, he just kept it up.

The isolation, the loss of hope wasn’t even the worst of it. Or maybe it was. The torture, he gulps back the bile rising in his throat.

He can only ask one question, over and again.

Why?

oOoOoOoOoOo

It takes him a moment to recognize that he is actually waking, that his senses are coming back to him. He lifts a hand to his face and rubs it over his sticky eyes. He opens his eyes and the world swim about him in currents of time. He sees faces he doesn’t know, hears words that drop and break without definition. He blinks again and he is in the dark but he feels a motor running as if he is in a vehicle. It bounces and jolts him about the back. He isn’t sure if he is in a van or truck, he cannot see. His eyes drift closed as the tide pulls him under again.

Waking again, he feels hands on his body but his limbs do not cooperate. His vision fogs over as if he is looking through a cold glass window pane and his warm breath conceals the outside world to him. He realizes they are stripping him of his clothes and he scrambles to fight, yet nothing of his body moves. It is as if he is trapped within his own flesh. An urgency burns inside of him like a flame eating his unresponsive muscles. He wants to get away, he needs to flee but nothing works. The cold and heat of the world about him has captured him, imprisoning him.

Words echo around him and he is half carried, half dragged onto a platform. Hands cast him aside as if he is garbage to be thrown out. A kick to his side pushes him to roll over onto his back; he thinks it is a mercy. The strangers move off. He hears a great roar and he wonders if it is the ocean. Something in his blurred visual field moves above him and he focuses on the white thing above him, hanging above him. It is the sides and top of a box – large enough to encompass the whole of the platform he lies upon. Slowly the box is lowered into place. He watches it with some abstract fascination, as an artist would observe the rays of light play. It thrills and teaches all at once.

He hears clamps being locked. In the last fifteen minutes as he’s concentrated on the box being positioned around the platform, his vision has cleared. His limbs start to ache as the numbness wears away. The light above him blazes. He glances around the room, the box, the cell.

For a long moment, he doesn’t understand. The facts do not computer, refuse to fall into an orderly pattern of the rational. He is in a white room. There is a bench, a toilet and sink. There is nothing else. There is no door, no window, no way out.

The only color in the room is the orange of his prison attire. He takes in a startled breath and grabs at the stiff fabric of the collar. It hits him like a battering ram, full force in the stomach and he clenches into a ball in an effort not to throw up.

He rolls to the side and tries to take a breath; it shudders and catches in his throat. He can see a small video camera mounted at least 6 meters up.

“Hello?” he says. “Can anyone hear me?”

The white walls answer. Sitting up, he shivers as his muscles protest any movement. He squeezes his eyes shut and calms the thrumming of his heart. He can do this, he can figure out who took him, and why. For the first time he notices his tracking anklet is gone. There is no safety net. He calls out again, but no one responds.

Neal is alone.

oOoOoOoOoOo

He listens to the click of his shoes on the linoleum tile. There are patterns of white, black and green across the floor. He tries to follow them as he walks down the corridor, but his mind is distracted, it keeps him from the sanctity of inane thoughts. He cycles down to one image; to Neal sitting in the cell pounding his head against the wall. Peter hears it like some demented echo.

It reminds him of an old story, a legend. Peter and Elizabeth had been visiting her sister in upstate New York, had taken a ride to see the sites, the old forts of the British still standing in Canada. They explored ‘Old Fort Niagara’ and watched the different guards play their routines. They toured the Fort and spied a cell in the old structure. The tales of a Native American kept in a single room cell, bereft of ever regaining his freedom, mesmerized him. The prisoner committed suicide by smashing his head against the stone walls. After centuries the blood stain still told his tale.

He pushes the memories aside, of old ghosts and new specters as he enters Neal’s hospital room. Neal is sitting on the bed with his legs dangling off the side. His feet are bare and he only gives the faintest of smiles as Peter crosses the small space.

Peter claps his hands together and smiles. “Doctor says you can go.”

Neal nods but doesn’t look up at Peter. He is staring at his feet, his bare feet. He is dressed in jeans and a black mock turtle neck. Elizabeth delivered the clothes to the room yesterday in preparation for Neal’s release. His attire is fitting for the early cold weather; all except for his feet.

“Can I help you with anything?” Peter says and gestures to the socks rolled in a ball next to Neal on the bed.

Neal looks up at Peter as if he is seeing him for the first time. His eyes scan Peter, searching for something and a slight intake of breath alerts him that Neal might not be ready to leave. Neal averts his gaze and grabs the socks. His hands are trembling but he manages to unroll them and slides them onto his feet.

Bending, Peter retrieves Neal’s shoes and hands them to him as he finishes his task. “Neal, are you ready to go, to leave the hospital?”

Neal puts up a hand to his temple shielding his eyes from Peter’s scrutiny. “I’m fine, I’m ready to go.” The tone quiets the room yet the softness is barely heard.

For a moment, Peter feels like he’s stepped into the inner sanctum of a church. He knows he must tread lightly and touch only when invited. “Did the doctor give you your instructions?”

He points to the tray next to the bed, there are discarded papers thrown there. Peter picks them up and flips through the directions on how to handle a concussion. There are several pamphlets on group therapy. It shocks Peter as he opens one. This might not be a passing issue; the harm done to Neal may have lasting effects. For the first time, he wonders if he should be the one bringing Neal home, or if Neal should be going home at all.

Glancing up at Neal, Peter sees the man read the very doubts lingering in his eyes. Instead of questioning him, Neal drops his focus to the floor and with it goes Peter’s hopes that Neal is better, that Neal is himself.

Peter steals himself and takes a deep breath before saying, “Come on then, let’s blow this joint.”

Neal hesitates before he stands. He looks like he might venture to ask Peter a question but stops himself and remains mute. He shuffles to his side and Peter cannot remove the image of an old man tottering across the floor. There shouldn’t be anything wrong with his legs. Neal wasn’t harmed physically by his captors.

Only by himself, he thinks and scolds himself. “Neal, is there something wrong with your legs.”

He glances up at Peter, then back at his feet. He clutches his hands together and wrings them. This is not the same confidence man Peter has known for years. Who is this stranger standing beside him?

“What is it, Neal?”

He tugs at the leg of his jeans and hikes up the hem to bare his ankle at Peter.

“What?”

It dawns on him then. The tracking anklet hasn’t been replaced. His leg is bare, empty, unsecured. He understands. The anklet does not symbolize imprisonment to Neal, but security, safety, connection.

Peter slips his hand in his coat pocket and pulls out the anklet. “I didn’t think, I just didn’t.”

Neal smiles and lifts his foot onto a chair. Peter locks the anklet and it flashes green.

“Ready?”

“Yes.”

They walk out of the hospital side by side, but connected.


	2. Chapter 2

He learns to stay away from the small slot on the floor through which his food is passed. He isn’t sure if it is once a day or twice he is fed. He isn’t even sure if there is such a thing as a day here. He knows the lights blaze to a white intensity so much so that his retinas ache with afterimages even when he doesn’t look directly at the ceiling. The reflected light off the white walls feels like lasers into his optical nerves. While he hasn’t been physically harmed, anything he does in defiance of the cell turns on him in ugly ways.

He doesn’t know if he hates the light or the darkness more. He isn’t sure how long it has been dark in the cell. He isn’t sure if it has been an hour, six hours or even a day. It can’t be more than that, he knows. He tries to measure how much time he’s been in the box by the stubble of his beard, by how many times he needs to piss or shit. It doesn’t work. The food and water aren’t served regularly, so his system messes with him. The stubble has grown too long to estimate the time intervals.

He hasn’t been in the dark for more than a day; he realizes. There is a strange phenomenon concerning the sense of sight. If a human being is in perfect darkness for a certain amount of time the optic nerve fires and leaves images, images imagined or hallucinated by the person. He hasn’t started to see dancing fairies or anything, so he figures they haven’t left him in the dark for a whole day – yet.

It is the first time he has had any dark for any length of time. Over the time he’s spent in the box, the lights have stayed on the majority of the time. They flicker off for only enough time for him to start to doze and then they flash back on again. He isn’t sure how they are monitoring his awake and sleep cycles. He starts sleeping on the floor instead of the too narrow bench which serves as a bed. Once he lies on the floor to sleep, it shocks him. The electrical burns are not serious enough to warrant medical attention, but he stays off the floor anytime it is dark. He never goes to the toilet or the sink in fear that the consequences will be worse. 

The pressure in his bladder tells him he is going to have to venture toward the area in the cell he believes the toilet sits. He isn’t sure anymore. He thinks it might be on the adjacent wall and in the corner, but the utter blackness of the room plays tricks with his mind. Finally, he slips off the bed on his hands and knees and feels his way toward the toilet. His hands brush the bowl too soon and he wonders if he is imagining it. He doesn’t want to relieve himself on the floor. The place smells as it is. He hasn’t had a bath in days and he has no other clothes but what is on his back. 

He convinces himself that it is in fact the real toilet and sits to relieve himself. Standing doesn’t seem like the optimal thing to do right now. He finds the handle and flushes. It gurgles a bit but Neal remembers the first time he used it and how both the toilet and the sink remind him of the facilities in a plane. They are adequate but by no means sufficient. 

As he washes his hands he sprinkles a little bit of the water on his face. It drips down the long straggles of his beard. He holds onto the edge of the small metal sink. Why are they doing this? Where is Peter?

For the first time, he thinks maybe he never left prison. Maybe he never pulled off his escape. Maybe the job in Romania didn’t go well and he’s stuck in some hellish prison overseas? Where the hell is he?

He calls out again, “Please someone?”

The floor sizzles and he hisses at the short electric shock. His feet are bare. He needs to find the bench again, before the next shock. The first one is always a warning; he drops to all fours again and crawls in the direction he thinks the bench is. He hits a wall and feels around. It isn’t there. He fingers search for it. It has to be here, somewhere. He starts crab walking along the wall, sliding his hands up and down hunting for the bench. 

The short pop of electricity threatens and he yells, “God damn it, I’m looking for the bench.”

The current races through the floor and hits him. He falls prone and groans as it runs through him in a short burst. His eyes start to tear as it subsides. He has no idea what the next punishment will be, how strong or long it will affect him. Rolling, he gets back up on his knees and smooths his hands over the walls looking for the bench.

The lights turn on, the strength blinds him and he falls to the floor. He cradles his face in his hands but the floor cracks again and the current rips through his body so that he twists against it and his eyes open wide. The light sears into his retina and he cries out at the pain. 

The current isn’t harmful. He’s sure it isn’t even as strong as a tazer, but enough to incapacitate. Tears stream down his face as he scans the room. He shakes his head. Damn it. 

“The fucking bench isn’t even there,” Neal whispers to no one. The bench has been retracted into the wall. “Son of a bitch.” 

He slams his fist on the wall and glares up at the camera. “What the hell do you want from me? What the hell?” Every blood vessel in his throat feels like it might explode as he shrieks at the cameras. After the first day, he screamed at the camera until he lost his voice. It follows him everywhere, watches him always, monitors him like he’s some rat in a scientist’s cage. Maybe he’s some experiment.

His breath is coming in short pants and he can no longer make out the room around him. His eyes burn with the light and abuse. He stumbles to the floor and doesn’t care if it hurts him. The pain in his eyes streaks like lightening into his brain. There are sparks as he closes his eyes, pulses that seem to mimic the throbbing in his brain.

“Peter, why? Why did you do this to me?” Neal says but no one answers.

oOoOoOoOoOo

Peter isn’t sure if it’s the best thing to do, but he brings Neal back to his apartment. He thinks he should have brought him home, like he planned. But Neal insists he wants to see his home again. He concedes but only because he thinks it might allow Neal some solace. The man deserves peace, if anything. He calls ahead and has Elizabeth and Mozzie prepare the apartment. It has been well over a month since Neal has occupied the loft apartment at June’s.

The traffic is horrendous and it takes him thirty minutes longer than he expects. Neal falls asleep in the Taurus, his head perched against the window. When Peter looks over at Neal, he realizes he twitches ever so slightly as if he’s trying to stay aware, awake to be on the ready for the next assault. He curses low in his throat and pulls to the curb to park. 

Placing his hand on Neal’s shoulder, Peter says, “We’re here now, Neal. You’re home.”

Even though he used the softest of tones, Neal still jumps awake and stares at Peter with his arms up and protective. Peter gives him a moment to recognize him, his surroundings and to relax. Neal inhales and lowers his arms. He doesn’t apologize but offers Peter a weak smile. 

“Come on, the crew is waiting.”

“The crew?” Neal says as he starts to open the door. He hesitates and Peter winces as he watches the once vibrant man next to him shrink back. 

“Just El and Moz, that’s all,” Peter says and hopes it is true. Diana and Jones had expressed concern and a wish to visit with Neal. He’d asked them to give his consultant some time to recover, but it had been a week and they were likely to think it was enough. He wondered how much time would ever be enough when he replayed the horror of the surveillance tapes in his head.

Seeing Neal crumpled on the floor of the cell, his hands over his ears as the noise blared and vibrated the room. He had curled into himself, trying to find refuge away from the cacophony assailing him. The lights blinked in some kind of perverse mockery of an old disco while the grating noises continued. Finally, Neal had crept to his knees and rocked while begging for it to stop. Peter never knew how long it went on.

“Come, Neal,” Peter says as he leads his partner up the steps of June’s house. The cold of the Autumn nips at them and Neal follows though the spring to his step has muted. Peter takes his elbow and helps him up the steps, though there is no real reason to assist Neal. Peter needs to touch him, needs to know he is in one piece – if not mentally at least physically.

Once they enter the house, Peter brings Neal to the long couch in June’s sitting room. He directs him to rest and goes to check on Neal’s apartment. He takes the stairs two at a time. It is as he has feared. Not only are Elizabeth and Mozzie in attendance, but half of the White Collar unit is roaming the apartment, including Hughes. It surprises Peter than Hughes has the guts to show his face. Without much difficulty he is able convince everyone to depart. His excuses are simple and direct. Everyone understands the trauma Neal has gone through and Peter blames the doctor’s orders, explaining the doctor doesn’t want Neal disturbed; he needs to rest. Though everyone is disappointed, especially Diana and Jones, they nod and leave without complaint. Elizabeth and Mozzie linger as Peter goes to fetch Neal from the seclusion of the sitting room. 

When he enters the room, Neal sits in the dark near the corner of the couch. He clenches his hands as Peter approaches. His clear strong voice stops Peter in his tracks.

“You know the doctor said the only physical injury of consequence I had was the one I self-inflicted.” He taps his head, indicating the stitches along the back of his scalp. “I guess he didn’t count anything else.” He laughs and it scratches the air instead of ringing it. “When the food would come,” he pauses and begins again. “When they opened the slot to slide the food in, I tried to put my arm out a few times. Tried to slide out anything to jimmy it open.” He rubs his hands together. “They electrified the door to the slot. It would give me this little jolt every time. Once I ignored it.” 

He drops his gaze away from Peter and stares at the designs in the rug. Peter is transfixed. He’s only seen portions of the video feed. “They caught my arm and slammed the door in place. They locked it. I couldn’t move. It cut into my arm. I don’t know; it must have been hours, it could have been more. I don’t know. Things crawled over my hand, bit at it. They turned on the floor – you know – so it would give me a little shock. I don’t know. It went on for hours. I understand now why rodents chew off their limbs to get out of a trap.”

Peter swears under his breath and takes a seat next to Neal. “I’m sorry, Neal.”

Neal looks at him, really looks at him for the first time. In his eyes Peter reads a distance, an accusation, a doubt he’s never seen in his partner’s expression. “Why? You had nothing to do with it, right?”

He grips Neal’s knee and says, “Right.” Yet, somehow he feels the blame resting like an albatross cursed around his neck.


	3. Chapter 3

PART THREE

Peter stands in Hughes’ office; his hands are on his hips and his suit jacket is pushed aside. He stares out into the cityscape instead of his boss’ set expression. He shakes his head and bites back his words. This isn’t the time to blow up, to demand; this is the time for restrain. He needs to know what exactly happened to Neal and why.

“So, Neal didn’t cut and run?” Peter asks again.

Hughes sits in his chair; his hands are folded, elbows on the high polished desk. He leans his chin on his fingers. His hands are well worn, used. Peter always thought of them as a pianist’s hands, long, strong, flexible. Now they look old.

“Neal has been in custody of the New York City prison system for the last two and a half weeks. He’s been taking part in a planned study to look at the ability of high risk prisoners and a new prison cell.” Hughes’ voice is measured, quiet like it always is. He rarely loses his temper. 

“High risk prisoners?”

“Flight risk.” Hughes releases his hands and lets them drop onto the desk top; there is something disturbing about the oil prints he leaves on the pristine shine.

“So, Neal volunteered for this project?” Peter knows the answer. Neal would never volunteer without discussing it with Peter. For the last two and a half weeks, Peter has had his team searching for Neal, figuring that he ran with the Nazi plunder. “Who’s heading up this project?”

“Warden Haskill’s the lead.”

“Haskill? You have to be joking. That nitwit couldn’t design his way out of a paperbag. What kind of study is this anyway?” 

“Haskill had some company design a new prison cell to not only decrease the risk of flight but also to subdue the more violent type of criminal. He specifically asked for Caffrey because of his ability to work the system,” Hughes says. He holds onto the edge of his desk and, for the first time, Peter sees Hughes vulnerability. 

“Did you okay this little project?” 

Hughes lowers his gaze and looks away from Peter. “Sometimes, Peter, you just have to say yes, sir.”

“Did Neal have any say in the matter?”

“He’s still under the custody of the penal system; he doesn’t have a choice.”

“Damn well he does,” Peter says. He uses his left hand to pound with two fingertips on Hughes desk. “Have you ever heard of the Belmont Report?”

“In passing,” Hughes says with a wave of his hand. It obviously doesn’t click.

“Prisoners are considered a vulnerable population, easily coerced into medical experiments as well as other experiments with the long term hope of more lenient sentences, or other enticements. Neal cannot consent for himself. Did you consent for him?”

Hughes looks up at Peter; there is clear bafflement in his eyes. 

“Do we even know what kind of study this is? What they are doing?” Peter asks.

His boss opens his mouth as if he might answer, then shakes his head. “No, I figured it was a simple prison cell; they would put Neal through his paces to see if he could escape.”

Peter rubs a hand over his forehead and looks up into the dull fluorescent lighting of the office. He turns back to Hughes who finally looks concerned. “Do we have any way to find out the status of this project? Do we even know where they are keeping him? We don’t even know if Neal actually escaped and is gone.”

“I would think they would have reported that to us, Peter,” Hughes says but stands up. His chair squeaks in protest. “I’m not privy to his location but I was sent a URL by special delivery.” He rifles through his inbox on his desk. “Here it is.” He hands it to Peter. “They said anytime I wanted to check up on Neal, all I had to do was log into the site.” 

It only takes minutes for Peter to return to his office, call Diana and Jones to his side and for him to log onto the site. He instantly knows something is wrong with the video feed. Jones makes a small grunt to his side as if to confirm his deepest fears. 

It isn’t a live feed, though it claims to be one. The images are halting and overlapping. It has been edited for content. Peter glares at the screen as he sees Neal bent on a slim bench, eating something off a paper tray with his hands. 

“Damn it,” Peter whispers.

“Boss?” Diane asks; she is rigid at his side. He can feel her tension pulse through the room as if she is a bowstring pulled too tight.

“If this is the best of the feed, what they are willing to share, what the hell else are they doing to him?”

The tape stops, jumps and starts again. Neal cups his hand to pick up some food. The black and white video is grainy and blurred, but his unshaven, unwashed condition is apparent. As the tape loops again, Diana makes a startled noise and Peter asks her what she’s seen.

“Watch it,” Diana says and points to Neal as he sits on the bench. “His index finger of his left hand holding the plate.”

Peter sinks as he studies Neal’s actions. He is using Morris code again, begging for help, to anyone who might be viewing the feed. It is subtle and quiet, but clear – a simple tap on the side of the plate. 

“S-O-S,” Jones nods. “Distress signal.”

Peter hits the computer to freeze the image and turns around to find Hughes standing behind him. His color has washed away to an ashen tone. He closes his eyes and says, “I didn’t know, Peter. I didn’t.”

“Can you stop it?”

Hughes’ expression falls to an even paler shade. “I don’t know. I don’t have the authority.”

Peter knows it is bordering on insubordination, knows it is insubordination as he demands, “You better damn well get the authority. Look at him. Look!”

Hughes doesn’t reprimand him, just nods and strides out of the office. Peter glowers after him for a moment before the pressing matters of Neal’s state yank him back. “I want to know what the hell is going on there. We need someone to hack into this feed.”

Both Diana and Jones look stunned at his interaction with their boss, but neither comment on it. Diana just clears her throat and notes, “Well, we do know one very good hacker.”

It takes a minute before the pieces slide together for Peter. “Sally.”

“Can we get in touch with her?” Diana asks.

“Maybe, yes, I’ll call Elizabeth.” Diana frowns as if the connection makes no sense to her. Peter shrugs. “Mozzie and Elizabeth keep in touch.” 

He has been hunting Neal for the last two and half weeks, targeting him as if he is the criminal. A deep ache stabs at his chest. When will he trust Neal? He hopes it isn’t too late to start.

 

 

oOoOoOoOoOo

New York City welcomes Neal home. He sits, his one leg bent and on the seat of the chair so he can lean his chin on it, staring out into the expanse of the steel mountains. Some think of cities as crowded, polluted places. Neal has always thought of New York City as an orchestra. The events, the places, the sounds all integrated together to form a perfect symphony. Now as he watches from his perch high above the city, his heart clutches at his lungs and will not release him. Each breath is a fight, a struggle to live. The noise below amplifies to deafen him in a strange paradox. 

He is alone within the pillars of the city but finds no strength amongst them. The bleached out heavens above him have no stars for him to navigate his way home. He sinks into the chair, releasing his leg, and waits, though he has no idea what he hopes to greet. It is a horrible moment as he realizes his life has turned into an existential play and he is the fool waiting for the non-existent.

There is a movement behind him and he doesn’t need to look over his shoulder to know who it is. “Peter?”

“I thought I’d stay since June and her family had to go out of town.” 

“No need,” Neal says and feels a hard edge slice through his voice.

“I think there is,” Peter walks to the balcony. 

Neal nods but doesn’t comment. The bathrobe he wears opens as the wind from the coming storm hits him. He shivers as the cold sweeps across his flesh, prickling and chilling. He wishes to be by himself, but not alone. He no longer knows the difference.

Peter approaches him but Neal still does not turn to face him. The cool night wraps him and holds him as if it freezes his muscles, his bones. Peter places a bottle of wine on the table and two glasses. He stands to the side of Neal and waits for him to acknowledge the small gift.

“I don’t think my doctor wants me drinking alcohol; she says I’m too maudlin right now.” He squints as the night grows darker, as the lights of the city glow and pulsate. 

Peter ignores the orders and starts the corkscrew into the bottle. “Its white, she has nothing to worry about.” He pours the wine and offers a glass to Neal.

For a moment, he stares at the wine as its luminosity reflects the lights about them. It seems to have captured the non-existent stars. As he accepts the drink, Peter asks him, “Are you? Too maudlin?”

Neal tries to give him the smile, his routine cocksure smile, but he cannot fake it. What he does foster is only a mockery of what is real. “The doctor thinks I’m a suicide risk.”

“What do you think?” 

He can see the fear in Peter’s eyes. The veil over his eyes is transparent and breaking. “I think the doctor hasn’t a clue.”

Peter takes a swig of the wine like he is drinking a beer. He drops the wine glass from his lips but keeps it just a few inches away. Peter gazes at him, but Neal watches the glitter of the lights in his wine glass. From the corner of his eyes, he sees Peter clench his fist before he says, “I want you to be all right.”

Neal doesn’t comment. The words envelope him and he thinks that the stars are even farther away. Peter ducks his head, trying to catch a glimpse of Neal’s focus, but there isn’t anything for Neal to say. Peter shifts in his seat and reaches to place the wine glass on the table. Another wind hits them and Neal braces himself. The chill of snow is in the air. He has missed the best parts of Autumn. 

“Winter is coming,” Neal says, though it is trite and stupid to say. He cannot smell the snow up in the rafters of the city, but the sky beckons it. Peter is a good man, but he is not a poet; what Neal speaks of is lost in the frigid air whispering about them.

“Which means you should be inside.” Peter stands, picks up his glass with his left hand and gestures for Neal to follow him. He offers a hand to Neal. There is something touching about his concern, but it rattles Neal to the core. Peter treats him like a fragile sculpture, worn away by too much acid rain and contaminated by the pollution of the city. 

“I’m a big boy now, Peter, I can take care of myself,” Neal snaps, but the images of the nightmare blind him. He sees the cage, the box again. He feels the will to keep trying to find a way out receding as the days blend together and the nights terrify him. 

He doesn’t realize it until Peter says, “I know you can.” He is mumbling over and again – I can take care of myself. “Come on out of the cold.”

Neal pulls out of the chair but his limbs feel frozen and he thinks they might shatter like that fine sculpture after all. He feels his knees crack, his joints protest, but he eases up into a standing position and follows Peter into the apartment. Peter checks on him, glancing back as if he might crumble to pieces.

Instead of leading him to the dining table, Peter continues to the couch and has Neal sit. He doesn’t say a word as he pulls a blanket from the bed and situates it over the length of Neal’s body. Over the weeks of his confinement, Neal lost some weight and muscle mass – another minor concern of the doctor but not so much as to call it torture. Neal blinks away the sudden wetness in his eyes.

After the silence clears the room, Peter says, “Haskill is being charged on multiple counts. He and the contractor he employed. He didn’t have any authority to do what he did. He forged much of the documents, even the head of the F.B.I. was fooled and all the way down the line to Hughes.”

Lying along the length of the too short couch, Neal rolls his head to the side and asks, “Who forged the documents for him?”

Peter shakes his head. “Still under investigation.”

“I could take a look at them.”

Peter turns away and, again, shakes his head. “No, you need to stay here. You need to recuperate.”

Neal lets out a heavy breath and then addresses the weight crushing them. “Peter, I want to help. You have to let me help.”

“Actually, I don’t,” Peter says. His wine is forgotten as he eyes Neal.

“Same thing all around, isn’t it? Doesn’t matter where I am, I’m still a prisoner.” Neal shoves the blanket away. The burst of adrenaline in his system helps him ignore the cold in his bones, the weariness driving him to inertia. “Why don’t you just put me back in the box? The damned cell, if you don’t trust me.”

“What the hell?” Peter stands up to face Neal. They are standing toe to toe, faces just inches apart. 

“What the hell is right,” Neal practically snarls at him. “You don’t trust me, Peter. Well, I’ve give you a news flash, I don’t trust the FBI.”

“Getting a little like Mister Haversham, maybe you’re not maudlin maybe you’re just paranoid.”

“Give me one reason to trust them, to trust you?” Neal says. “Why did it take three weeks, Peter? Three weeks, I was in that box, that torture chamber.” His voice fractures the air and he pants as he speaks. “I’ll tell you why, it took three weeks because you thought I’d run. You spent the time chasing me to arrest me, not to come and rescue me, Peter. And Hughes let you do it, he pretended I’d run too.” He pokes a finger at Peter’s shoulder. “Because to the FBI, to you, I’m just a criminal. I’m not trustworthy, I’m not human.”

As Neal states the final words, Peter stumbles back and bows his head. His whole frame folds in on itself as he staggers to the nearest chair and collapses. He stares at the floor as he says, “You’re right, in so many ways, you’re right.” He looks up at Neal then and the earnest plea in his expression hammers into Neal more so than any shouted argument. “I’ve tried to make it better, Neal, I have.” He closes his eyes for a minute then, as he looks up at Neal, adds, “You’re right, I didn’t trust you. I’d thought you ran.”

The admission fragments Neal’s anger, hollows out his strength until he falls onto the couch and feels the consistency of his bones and muscles liquefy. He is spent, drawn out, hopeless.

The weight of Peter’s presence pushes down on the cushions next to him. His gaze fixates on the dark skylight, the shadows pitched there from the lamps below. He murmurs into the encroaching night, into the shades of distrust. “I want to stay, stay.”

Peter mistakes his words and nods. “You’re safe now, Neal. They can’t touch you anymore without my express permission. Hughes made it so. Can you trust that, can you trust me?”

Through the unshod tears, Neal looks at Peter. “I always have. I always trust you.”

oOoOoOoOoOo  
The ambulance swerves through the congestion of traffic through the streets of New York City. The siren screeches their approach as cars, trucks and vans present a slow moving obstacle course to their destination. Phrases filter through his thoughts and sear through his hopes. 

Self-injury.

Possible skull fracture.

Unresponsive.

Blood loss.

The last opens up Peter’s world as he looks down at an unconscious Neal. His body sways with the motion of the emergency vehicle. Blood leaks over the cushion of the gurney, smears over his face. He glances away from the pool of blood spilling out of Neal’s head and sees the rakes of nail scratches up and down his arms. Flesh and blood embeds under his fingernails. Peter chokes back the bile. The paramedic works with a slightly off efficiency. He wonders if it was a good idea for him to ride in the ambulance, having an FBI agent watching over your shoulder cannot be an easy thing.

She glances up at him and offers only a tight smile as she relays her findings to the driver. His findings were horrifying and eat away at any semblance of belief in justice. He slips a hand over his face as he recalls the video, the living truth of ugliness in this world, in his world.

It had taken a whole day to hunt down Mozzie and Sally. Elizabeth had nearly been frantic with her constant phone calls. He was sure she wore out the buttons on her phone as she redialed and left voice message after message for Mozzie.

Sally and Mozzie showed up at their door at 3:35 in the morning. As Peter swung open the door, Elizabeth came down the stairs tying on her robe. When she realized who it was, a sigh of relief left her. She promised coffee and breakfast as Sally and Mozzie set up in the dining area. They set up a router, several computers and screens before he could even ask them if either of them would like sugar or milk in their coffee. Mozzie waved it off, Sally asked for sugar and lots of it.

There were several other gizmos Peter didn’t recognize hauled into the living room. Mozzie made an oblique reference to keeping ‘the man’ at bay and Peter only rolled his eyes but stayed silent. In less than an hour Sally tapped away at the computers. 

It took her less than fifteen minutes to hack the feed. Peter’s stomach had clenched as the images became vibrate, clear and damning all at once. While the sun dawned outside his window, casting shadowed light across the dining table, Neal crouched in a ball on the floor of a completely white cell. Elizabeth gasped as she peered over his shoulder.

He bit back his own response, shielding himself with the cloak of a Federal agent. He couldn’t let his emotions get involved. He had stared at the screen in silence. There were scratch marks up and down Neal’s arms. Red stained the floor of the box. Neal’s hands were cupped over his ears as he shut his eyes and yelled. There was no audio.

“Can you get us audio? Is it available?” Peter said as he scrambled for the phone.

“Looking for it,” Sally said and asked Mozzie to access another computer. In moments, she shook her head. “No, there’s no audio from this address. I could see if I can find another?”

“You can do that?”

Sally smiled.

“Can you find out where it’s coming from? His location?” He held the phone, his hand perched over the buttons.

“Depends on how smart they are.”

“Do it,” Peter commanded then turned to the phone. He knew it was early, but he needed Diana. When she answered her voice was tired but very much all business. “I need you at my house, now. Get Jones. We might have a lead on Neal. I’m calling Hughes to see if he found out.”

A slight ‘oh’ from his wife turns his attention back to the video feed. The lights were blinking on and off in a rhythmic dance in the cell, and Neal was screaming. The blood vessels in his throat were standing out; his eyes were demonic in their aspect as he glared up at the camera. 

When Neal had collapsed on the floor, his body writhing in some strange contortions, Peter swore and punched the number for Hughes. Neal had gone silent now; his breath came in pants as he stared up at the ceiling. 

“I need his location,” Peter had barked into the phone. “Neal’s. I need it now.”

Hughes had given an explanation that Peter was too kind to think of as an excuse. The higher ups had to verify an issue; they were taking the unit’s complains under advisement. It would take a few days. 

“Neal doesn’t have a few days,” Peter said as he watched Neal crawl to the corner of the room, curve in on himself and bang his head against the solid wall. He did it in time to the flashes of light.

“They’re clever,” Sally mumbled while she keys in another code onto the keyboard. She was ignored to the visuals as she concentrated on the tasks at hand.

Elizabeth’s exclamation riveted their attention back to the video feed, “Oh Peter.”

They are transfixed as Neal pounded his head over and again, as he raked his nails up and down his already scarred arms. Smears of blood covered scabs flaked away leaving a circle of red around him.

It would take them several more days to break the codes, to find the origin of the bouncing IP address. Several more days of watching Neal splinter into pieces before them. They went in without permission, without a search warrant, because they could, because Neal was a fugitive. 

“Sir, we’re here,” the paramedic pulls him out of his reverie and Peter nods as the ambulance comes to a stop. In seconds, the gurney is whisked away and Peter is left in the cold of the parking lot staring after the droplets of blood on the concrete.

oOoOoOoOoOo

It takes another three days to find Haskill. He’s found on the interstate, sleeping at one of the rest stops in his car. The state police haul him back to New York City and Peter with Hughes and Diana in tow crash into the interrogation room of the local precinct without stopping. Peter jerks Haskill to his feet and slams his head against the wall.

“How the hell does it feel, you ass?” He shoves him again for good measure and the sound echoes in the room. 

Haskill yells out his rights, but no one in the room moves to stop Peter. He’s on a mission and his fierce determination makes them steer clear of him. Haskill stammers out excuses and finally settles on one. “He’s a God damned convict. They’re fucking animals, why the hell do you care?”

“Fuck,” Peter says and twists the collar of the shirt the Warden wears. His face bulges as he slaps at Peter to release him. 

When Peter eases up, Haskill spits at him and says, “I work with them day and night; I know what they’re like. God damn fucking animals.”

“People like you make them that way, you son of a bitch.” He pulls back his fist to smash into his face but Diana is there, tugging on his arm, stopping him.

“Come on, boss, they have to book him.” Peter jogs him once more and frees him, the energy still percolates through him. Diana drags him to the doorway.

“Book me? For what?” Haskill asks. “I was doing my job. You know, right Hughes? We were doing our jobs.”

Hughes stops, lowers his head for a moment and then looks up at the former prison warden. He crosses the room in one stride and his fist collides with Haskill’s nose. Blood spurts out and sprays both Haskill and Hughes., Hughes says, “You’re a bastard, you know that Haskill. You deserve what they’re going to do to you in prison.”

Haskill’s surprise moan is the last thing Peter hears as they exit the room. “You know, he’ll be in solitary. He’ll never be in the general population.”

Hughes peers over his shoulder at the receding interrogation room. “There are always mistakes, Agent Burke, always mistakes.”

oOoOoOoOoOo

There is something serene, beautiful and quieting about the first snow fall. Neal gazes out the window as the flurries spin and swirl about the balcony. The prediction was only for a dusting but the front has stalled out and New York City is coated in a blanket of stillness. It is a rare and exceptional thing for the city to be hushed. Even the traffic noises are dimmed by the cloak of Mother Nature.

The door to the apartment swings open and Peter enters. Snow perched on him glitters and shines. He shakes off and stamps his shoes out a few times. He carries a grocery bag and smiles as he sees Neal huddled in a blanket at the dining table. 

“I bring good tidings and food, too,” Peter says as he shrugs off his coat and throws it over a chair. Neal cringes but says nothing. Peter continues to the kitchen and slides the cartons of food into the refrigerator. “El says she wants you to eat the soup first and then the dessert. No cheating.”

An honest smile comes to his face and Neal laugh a bit. It is low and muted, but still there. He shifts and feels the weight of the anklet on his leg. It bothers him that he needs the feel of it there, the burden to tell him someone is watching over him. His doctor thinks he has a dependency issue; he thinks she needs to reassess her calling in life. At least as a confidence man, he could always read people without shooting wide of the mark all the time. 

He knows why he needs it there. Though he has issues with the FBI, Neal wants to feel Peter close. The security it brings him to know that Peter can check his tracking data at any time helps Neal sleep at night. 

“You know they came at night,” Neal says.

Peter pivots and looks at Neal; his full attention granted to him. 

“I was sleeping. I don’t know how they got in. June changed the locks.” Neal pulls the blanket closer, but he feels like an old man. “Once they got me in the car, they cut the anklet. I don’t remember much after that, just half imagined sights and sounds, until I woke up in the box.”

Peter wants to say something, wants to reassure Neal that it will never happen again. Neal knows it’s not in his power to make that promise. Yet, somehow the very thought of Peter trying to make it true comforts Neal. 

He turns the subject away from the impossible. “I’m not going back to Doctor Sheen again.” 

Peter stops as he stirs the soup on the stovetop. “You think that’s wise? It’s only been a week since you left the hospital.” He reads the worry in Peter’s stance, his expression. He knows he isn’t himself, he isn’t sure who he is anymore – that thing locked up in the box or Neal Caffrey. He has to figure out who Neal Caffrey is again.

“Seeing her isn’t going to help me when all she spouts are theories ripped right from a psychology book.” Neal frowns. “I did better than that when I was a psychologist.”

“You were-.” Peter stops, salutes him and says, “I don’t want to know, do I?”

“Maybe not,” Neal notes. He starts again, thinking of the good doctor – or less than adequate doctor and says, “I don’t want to be him.”

Peter tilts his head, puzzled. As he ladles out the soup, he asks, “The psychologist?”

Neal chuckles, a low and lonely sound. “No, that thing, that thing in that room.” His voice breaks and he heaves in a harsh breath as he attempts to keep the tears at bay. He’d made a vow; no tears. He wasn’t going to be that person, sinking in self-pity.

The soup is placed before him with freshly baked bread, butter and tea. Peter sits in the chair next to him and places a hand on Neal’s arm. “You’re Neal Caffrey, what happened in that cell doesn’t define you.”

Neal glances away as he fights away the emotions, the breakdown. “Sometimes, it does. Sometimes when I’m in the shower or alone, I can feel it. It explodes out of me. I can’t.” Neal jabs a fingernail into his skin, then freezes as he realizes what he is doing.

“Neal,” Peter says. “Listen to me, Neal.” He looks up at Peter. “My mother once told me that the only way to survive a storm was through it, you can’t just go around it, you have to make it through it. It isn’t fun, but you have to face it, full force.”

“I’m not sure I can,” Neal whispers, the urge to dig his fingernail deep into his flesh surges then ebbs as Peter holds onto his hand.

“Mom never said anything about going through the storm alone, Neal.” 

Neal closes his eyes and nods. Peter stands and pats him once on the back then tells him to eat, the soup is getting cold. As he hunches over the bowl, Peter whispers to him, “You’re not alone, Neal.”

oOoOoOoOoOo

The weather turns surprisingly warm in the next weeks after Neal’s abduction. Neal walks the blocks around June’s house in the warm haze of late Autumn, watching the rolling turn of leaves across the sidewalk. Sometimes, Sara hangs on his arm and talks of art and fraud and insurance. He comments and leans into her. It feels solid and soft, but never perfect. 

Mozzie keeps the balcony warm at night with flowing bottles of red wine and thoughts of faraway, tropical islands. He keeps a running dialogue of wishes and dreams that Neal isn’t sure he desires, but he falls into the rhythm of their schemes with ease. It is as if he is putting on an old sweater, stretching it to fit the new Neal Caffrey he has begun. He never listens to Mozzie when the man urges him to leave the FBI, to cut and run because they aren’t trustworthy. He shrugs off the worries and concerns. It feels right, but not perfect.

Elizabeth takes him to lunch on a day it grows colder. They wanted to sit outside, but the reality of the season changes their minds and they sit close to the window and people watch. Neal teaches Elizabeth how to read the stories of strangers. He gives her clues as to the tells of people, the way they dress, or move, or walk. She giggles and smiles at him. They have dessert together, savoring the chocolate mousse and rating it. It is beautiful and elegant but not quite perfect.

At night, when he is alone he sometimes cries. He listens to music from the Rat Pack days and allows the emotions to permeate into his sinews, muscles, and bones. The beat robs his heart and seeps into his soul. He wonders who he is. It is only because Peter shows up on these nights, that Neal is able to crawl his way through the sorrow. He never figures out how Peter understands or knows when to come. He always shows up when Neal is on the precipice, when Neal is about to lose himself. Peter is there, to find him – as always. They sit together and piece Neal back into place, the shards of the sculpture repaired. They play cards, or chess. They work on a case. Peter knows to challenge Neal, to work him into himself again. With each game or case, a bit of Neal is found again and mended back into place. It is sad and messy and damaged, but it is perfect.

THE END.


End file.
